Borneo

Tattooed in Borneo

The suspense inside the longhouse grew as Ngipa, the master tattoo artist, studied the newly stamped ink design on my leg. After several long minutes, he gave a sharp affirmative nod. There was a collective sigh of relief from the assembled watchers. Relief on my part would have been premature, however, for I was about to submit myself willingly to a long and painful process; one, however, that would make me permanent possessor of a beautiful piece of art work and priceless anthropological documentation, an Iban or Sea Dayak tattoo. My being the first white man to visit this place was sensation enough for its inhabitants, but my desire to wear an art form which, although venerated by the old, had been lately ignored or even shunned by the young as outdated and meaningless had the longhouse buzzing with curiosity and speculation. Would Ngipa agree to tattoo the stranger? What design would he choose? Could the white man bear the pain? My own questions exactly.

The story behind this small drama was my desire, as curator of Lyle Tuttle's Tattoo Art Museum in San Francisco, to document the current state of the art of tattooing among the Ibans or Sea Dayaks of Sarawak in Malaysian Borneo.* The Ibans are the largest of the many different groups which inhabit the world's third largest island, situated just southwest of the Philippines. Once fierce headhunting people and pirating warriors, these people, like many other Southeast Asian cultural groups, have practiced tattooing as an art form for centuries. Nomadic by nature, the Ibans (according to their "tusut" or oral genealogical lore) began

their migrations from Kalimantan or Indonesian Borneo some fifteen generations ago, crossing over the natural division of the Kalingkong Range into Sarawak.

James Brooke, the British "White Rajah" who introduced written records to Sarawak, was granted control of the area in 1841 as a reward for helping to crush a local revolt. The Brooke family held feudal power until the early years of World War II brought Japanese occupation. (In the redistribution following the war, Sarawak along with Sabah in the north became British protectorates. In 1963, the two states voted to become part of the Malaysian federation and now, along with Brunei, still a British protectorate, comprise Malaysian Borneo, about a quarter of the island's land area.)

* Earlier, in 1970, I had received my first tattoos, stylized line groupings representing Dolphins, on the island of Yap in Micronesia.

In their attempts to establish authority, the Brookes made headhunting a "serious offence" but did little else to alter the Iban way of life or predeliction for tattoooing. Always energetic, restless, and constantly on the move the Sea Dayaks' migrations involved continual expansion into fresh territory. They occasionally asked permission to enter a new area but often simply attacked and drove off the original inhabitants. The land, cleared by the men and planted by the women, was invariably highly productive. Rivers provided fish, and forests were full of game. Life would go on comfortably until the land was no longer fertile, or the group grew so large that the area could no longer supply its needs. At this point, a new leader would emerge, split the group, and move on a neighborly distance to the next valley or down-river. British government policy discouraged the intertribal frictions caused by the Dayaks' migrations, and most tribal groups have settled into a more or less stationary existence.

My search for a village in which the custom of tattooing had survived the march of progress began at the Sarawak Museum. Located in the capital city of Kuching and internationally known among scholars for its fine collections of tribal artifacts, the museum's displays supplemented by photographs and diagrams graphically present the cultural background and distribution of Borneo's diverse population.

Mr. Peter Kadit, the museum's ethnologist, upon learning of my project, enthusiastically suggested the forest areas surrounding the village of Lubok Antu in the Second Division. Mr. Kadit had made studies in that area a few years earlier, and felt that the Lubok Antu area represented a middle ground -- not yet affected directly by the influence of city life, yet not as remote as other Ibans. He believed that its inhabitants reflected, at the moment, the probable direction in which the traditional Iban lifestyle and arts were headed. Mr. Kadit noted that a direct instrument of change has been the gradual extension of Sarawak's main road further and further from Kuching. I was infomed that it would take about eight hours by bus to reach my destination; less than a decade ago, the same distance would have taken the better part of a week. For the actual journey I was accompanied by Mark Wener, an American medical student (encountered at the museum in Kuching), who, hearing of my expedition, eagerly offered to photograph the entire operation. Mr. Kadit recommended an interpreter, one Mr. Jubin, a gentleman who turned out to be himself a worthy object for study as an Iban who seemed to have successfully navigated the cultural gap. Although born in what we would consider a primitive setting, Mr. Jubin, at a vigorous 70, had both feet planted firmly in the twentieth century, explaining that he had grown up on a river not too far from our destination but had moved to the capital as a young man and received some education there. He had, he noted proudly, been in the government employ for many years as a district administrator in some of the more remote areas of Sarawak. His command of English as well as administrative skills learned in Kuching during his youth, were now of great use to him in a busy network of profitable operations ranging from up-river guide service to a "tuak" (rice beer) distillery.

As we jolted along the first stage of our journey in a bus, sardine-packed in along with people and products of the city off to outlying villages for commerce or visits with country cousins, Mr. Jubin explained that his people were now very friendly and assured us that it had been many years since there had been any tribal fighting in the area. Peace, however, was a relative term, he said, pointing out with a touch of irony the bleak-looking army post where his son was stationed. Government troops use these posts as bases for periodic embarkings into the jungle to fight active Communist groups. I recalled the previous night at the movies in Kuching where the first images to appear on the screen were yearbook-style photographs of revolutionaries in neat rows, each with a substantial reward quoted above his head. When questioned about headhunting, Mr. Jubin admitted to "taking a few heads," but added quickly, "That was during the war when the old ways were briefly revived."

Upon arriving in the village of Lubok Antu, we headed for its center of activity, an open-air "restaurant" where a cool drink awaited us. Coincidentally, several officials from a longhouse about two miles upriver were gathered at the restaurant, and Mr. Jubin was soon able to relay to us an invitation to visit their community at their request; however, we waited at the restaurant until preparations could be made at the longhouse for a traditional welcome. A short time later, a guide appeared offering to carry our luggage in a basket on his back and beckoning us to follow him. After an hour of active hiking over a patchwork of roads and trails, crossing what seemed like every conceivable type of terrain, we spotted the longhouse, towering above a distant pepper field. (Pepper and rubber trees are the two main cash crops grown by the Ibans.)

After a brief introduction to those few souls not busy preparing for our grand entrance, someone suggested a bath in the river, a social interval which, we subsequently discovered, was a three-times-daily occurrence. A plunge into the fast-moving water was refreshing after our sweaty walk, as was the assurance that a recent government program to reduce the dangerously high crocodile population had been a great success. As sunset approached, however, it was suggested that we head back, not only because the longhouse was now in readiness, but because deadly cobras which remain hidden in the daytime invariably make public appearances while returning to their nests in the first cool of evening.

On approaching the longhouse, we gained entrance by climbing a notched log which, luckily for our city-bred feet, had rails on either sides. Entering the doorway, we were formally introduced to the "tuai rumah" or headman, then to his second-in-command, then down through a long line of other interested adults, to be finally surrounded by wide-eyed children whose faces were a study in mingled shyness and delight. It was surprising how quickly we began to feel comfortable, considering that we had just walked into the immediate home environment of fourteen different families under the same roof. The longhouse, common throughout Borneo, is essentially a one-roofed village. This one, built only two years earlier, was set back from the river and mounted on ten-foot stilts to avoid the possibility of damage by flood. It also reflected the influence of modern times with a metal roof, as opposed to the usual woven palm thatch. Traditionally built of a size to contain several hundred fighting men for defence, this longhouse's smaller size and number of residents (less than sixty), reflected another shift from earlier times.

Iban longhouses are divided into three parts; the center section or "ruai" is a kind of communal highway. The "tuai rumah" led us ceremoniously along this central path, while the women and children preceded us, carefully placing finely woven rattan mats which lent beauty as well as strength to the bamboo floor.

The second section, about one-half of the actual area, consists of "bileks" or walled-off living sections for individual families, carefully divided into cooking, eating and sleeping areas with great economy of space; somehow nothing appears overcrowded. It was here that one of the old men ceremoniously waved a live chicken over our heads as part of the welcoming ritual. We were then seated prominently by the door leading to the "tanju," an open verandah running the length of the house, on ordinary days used for drying rice or clothes. Since the split-bamboo floor of the "tanju" is constantly exposed to heavy rains, it was not as strong as it appeared, as Mark discovered several moments later when he walked out on it to investigate the view and disappeared with a loud crash, a muffled yell, and a great flurry and squawking of startled chickens, rudely displaced from their evening roost in the supports beneath. The children shrieked with delight at the unexpected addition to the proceedings; and Mark, along with everyone else had a good laugh; but I noticed his first walk down the "tanju" was also his last.

The ice, so to speak, having been broken, Mr. Yubin explained the purpose of our visit to the longhouse; and the idea was met with great enthusiasm and wonder. The fairly recent introduction of foreign religious taboos and new social ideas had led to an inevitable change in established aesthetic values. Tattooing in the Lubok Antu area, while not yet an extinct practice, had been clearly on the decline; but this new perspective on it generated an instant wave of enthusiasm.
I explained through Mr. Yubin that I found the Iban designs very beautiful and that I hoped to gather as much information as possible, with the intention of presenting it in the form of an exhibition when I returned to America. Awed and delighted by this prospect, the men decided to take the necessary time away from their harvest work to draw the designs and prepare the tools for two leg tattoos. Harvesting, here as elsewhere in the world, is one of the most important activities of the year; and this break in schedule was only the first of many kindnesses shown us during our three-day visit.

click for larger version of photo

Our meal that evening consisted of leafy green vegetables, bamboo shoots with herbs, and fresh and dried fish, served along with the locally grown rice which made up the bulk of the meal. We were also treated to some salted wild boar, which, since the introduction of firearms, has become all but extinct near inhabited areas. Eating, like most other longhouse activities, took place on the floor. "A chair is useful only if one is too old to squat," I was informed. "Tuak," the mildly-alcoholic homebrew made from fermenting rice, helped to wash down what we soon discovered was only the first of three meals that evening, with the chicken that had been waved over our heads turning up on our plates in a somewhat less lively condition. After eating heartily with the "tuai rumah," we were guided a few doors down the "raui" to the second-in-command's "bilek" where we were faced, to our slight dismay, with another complete dinner. Our guide informed us that it was customary to eat with both leading families as well as the one which would provide us with sleeping mats. The second meal was as delicious as the first; however, Mark and I were relieved to see only tea and a simple bowl of fruit waiting for us as we entered the third "bilek."

Although the inhabitants of this longhouse had officially been Christians for the past decade, the traditional welcoming ceremony which followed the meals reflected close ties maintained with the spirit world. Under oil lamps in the center of the "ruai" crouched a carved, brightly painted wooden image of the hornbill, a bird which plays an important role in Iban mythology. Its spreading wings supported small human images in ceremonial clothing. In former times, when fighting dominated the Iban lifestyle, the hornbill carving was raised the night before an attack and pointed in the direction of an enemy longhouse. The Dayaks believed the hornbill's spirit would fly into the village and frighten enemies to death, leaving little resistance during the fight the following morning. In the flickering lamplight, the carved wings seemed to lift and quiver as young men and women took turns sitting on either side of the hornbill, chanting welcome wishes and requests for various offerings of tobacco, "tuak," food, and money to be placed in front of the image by the guests. Later, as the young women played individual brass gongs, a young man emerged from a dark corner and began a slow hypnotic dance. Someone suggested that Mark and I demonstrate how Americans dance, an idea which was met with loud applause. Although tempted for a moment to play Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, we decided in favor of a quickly improvised Irish jig. Judging by the uncontrolled laughter, the entire longhouse found us highly entertaining. We were convulsed ourselves, and realized that in a few short hours the Ibans had made us feel if not exactly at home at least very welcome.

The next morning, following the inevitable wash in the river and a breakfast of rice, vegetables, and tea, I brought out my camera but was not quite prepared for the enthusiasm of the response to it. After taking shots of most of the infant children, all of the teenage girls in their finest western-style clothing and half of the old folks, I adamantly hid the camera to save some film for our purpose of tattoo documentation.

During the morning's photo session, the men had been off working on drawings for my tattoo. Earlier, I had expressed a desire for either a traditional pattern or a combination of the traditional with a special commemorative design for this occasion. The Sea Dayak designs are bold and striking, a beautiful combination of mass and line with a remarkably open and airy feeling. The Ibans, in addition to being the most numerous of Borneo's many different groups, are also the most extensively tattooed. They have most probably taken the majority of their tattoo inspiration from the Kayans, a people displaced as the Ibans moved further into the interior of Sarawak. The Kayans have gone further in stylizing their designs, and an Iban and a Kayan with similar tattoos will probably assign completely different and personal meanings to the design. Iban women are also tattooed but not nearly as much as the Kayan women, the arms of the latter being so delicately tattooed that early explorers at first mistook the design for silk gloves. Fine line designs tattooed on the hands of Sea Dayak warriors indicate the wearer has taken a head. The heads of enemies were believed to have magical powers that would bring strength and virtue to the longhouse, and the taking of one was considered a crowning proof of manhood. The young women naturally encouraged the young men to fetch them heads at every opportunity.

The tattoo designs worn by a number of the men now busy composing mine were excellent examples of Sarawak motifs in isolation -- the stylized dogs, scorpions, and hornbills are also seen in the Ibans' basketry, woodcarving, and weaving. As in the rest of the Indonesian Archipelago, weaving, in Borneo, is a highly respected art. In Sarawak, the Iban and Malay women are among the few who have continued to practice the craft; and yet, like tattooing, it is a dying art form. As the taking of a head was an accomplishment of manhood, ability to weave was considered a prerequisite of marriage for a woman. Blankets, skirts, and jackets, now used primarily for ceremonial purposes, are woven on the simplest of looms and carefully stored in the owner's "bilek" until they are needed. Decorative geometric designs tattooed on a woman's forearm indicate exceptional skill as a weaver. Rosette motifs worn by the men on both shoulders are used, especially by the Sea Dayaks, as identity marks. They are often seen on the back as well, in earlier times applied in commemoration of special journeys and, more lately, simply as decoration. Small beadlike-tattoos are also traditionally put on fingers or wrist to ward off sickness.

Nowadays, unrelated to religious or cultural reasons, the desire to decorate the body seems to have become the major motivation for Iban tattooing.

Naturally curious about my own prospective body decoration, I had been peering over the shoulders of the men engaged in designing my tattoo off and on all morning between photos and, about midday, was finally allowed to spread out the various proposed designs for a real look. After discussing their merits, I suggested taking particular areas of each that appealed to me and working them into a single pattern to be repeated symmetrically on each leg. It was a challenge no designer could resist. They scattered to work individually, each determined to produce the desired result. Later, while walking down the "tanju," I spotted the "tuai rumah" crouched in a nearby doorway bent over an unfinished design. He was apparently unconscious of my presence; but as I watched, he filled in the remaining lines exactly as if I had been guiding his hand. Suddenly he looked up and saw me; the expression on my face told him more clearly than words that I had made my decision. By this time, the sun was setting. The rest of the evening was spent making tools and preparing pigment. All decided to retire early.

I had never been tattooed by this method before, but it was evident that skill and self-assurance are of the utmost importance in the manipulation of the simple Dayak instruments. Once a mark is struck, it remains forever. I had purchased some sewing needles in the village in case the traditional needles (thorns from a local bush) were not available. The tools were similar to those used throughout Southeast Asia. The artist ties his needles to a long stick; and by hitting this needle-edged tool with a hammer-like wooden striker, a design is punctured into the flesh. The pigment traditionally used is lampblack or soot mixed with pigs fat or sugarcane juice. The design I had chosen was drawn on a block of wood, and the negative areas were carved out to leave the pattern raised. When the ink block was pressed against my leg and removed, a clear, stamped impression of the design remained. Ngipa glanced up to check my reaction at tattooing's traditional "moment of truth." I gave him what I hoped was an insouciant smile.

I had shaved the part of my leg that was to be tattooed and had taken the precaution of applying an antibacterial salve. A week's supply of penicillin was stashed in my bag in case of possible infection. Thus fortified, I could only hold my breath and screw up my courage as Ngipa touched up the "stamped" design in a few spots. Then, advising me to lie down and make myself comfortable, he raised his tools and began. One hour later he had finished the outline. I was told another two hours were needed to fill in the design. Mark, busily photographing, took time to note that my brave pre-operation smile had faded quickly oonce Ngipa and another assistant began working at the same time. While not excruciatingly painful, a three-hour tattoo session is a long way from being entertaining. When the first leg was finished, I was grateful for a pause for a wash, a little lunch, and an hour's rest before beginning the second. Noticing a bottle of Chinese wine within reach, I decided to take a sip or two to keep my courage up. By the time the second tattoo was completed, the bottle was empty; and I could meet the admiring glances of the longhouse inhabitants with a proud, if fuzzy, bravado. Patting my shoulder proudly, Ngipa assured me that, if all went well, the scab which would form in a few days should be gone in a week, revealing my proud new Sea Dayak tattoo.

Afterwards, the knives, clothing, and tobacco I had brought along as an exchange for the tattoos were received with enthusiasm. We planned to leave early the next morning; and, in our honor, the "tuak," the music, the dancing, and the conversation flowed freely as the evening wore on. The hours drifted toward midnight in a happy haze, as small groups, after a last admiring look at my tattoo, headed down the "ruai" toward their respective "bileks." It had been a busy and exciting few days for everyone, and for the Ibans there was still the harvest to complete. As for me, I sat in pleasant contemplation of my tattoos trying to ignore the blank insistence of that empty spot near my ankle. The one I've been secretly reserving for the Shans of Burma.***

Leo Brereton was first exposed to tattooing on a tribal level while working in the Eastern Caroline Islands of Micronesia. An interest in researching and sharing the beauty of tribal designs led to a position as curator of the Tattoo Art Museum of San Francisco in the late seventies. Over the past dozen years, Leo has been traditionally tattooed by the Yapese of Micronesia, the Ibans of Borneo and the Shans of Burma. He is currently living and working among the Zuni Indians of Western New Mexico.

See some great tatoos

We gratefully acknowlege Leo's kind permission to reprint this article, originally published in "Tattootime" in 1982.